


a hollow nest to dream in

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark is an escort who has to constantly replace his heart. Christian is the poster boy of the organ revolution, and he is Mark's customer. (They were never meant to fall in love)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hollow nest to dream in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemjam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/gifts).



All human beings experience organ failure before the age of twenty.

'Hold still.'

It's a redundant order, but Mark can hardly fault a machine with preset speech. He had been given an anaesthetic but he isn't sedated. He closes his eyes, turning his head to one side, willing himself not to look. It's nothing new to him, just the routine replacement of one artificial heart with another, nothing more.

When the procedure is over, a robotic voice tells him that the cost of the RoboOrgan has been successfully credited to his Agency, as always.

'Feeling alright, Sir?'

'Could be better,' Mark grunts.

'Please remember to take good care of your new RoboOrgan, Sir.'

Mark's lips draw into a grim smile. Each new RoboOrgan had served him much longer than its predecessor. Perhaps it's due to advances in technology that they're able to give him something of higher quality each time. Even so, eventually, he'll be lying on the operating table once more, undergoing the replacement procedure when yet another RoboOrgan expires.

 

Mark's heart had failed when he was fifteen and on the cusp of adulthood, rotting his life away in a state orphanage as he waited to be assigned to a Workzone in the city. State welfare had ensured that he had received an inexpensive artificial heart from one of the Lower RoboOrgan Corporations, but the constant replacements required due to the generally poor quality of Lower RoboOrgans rendered their low costs pointless. With no Workzone willing to take a worker whose organs had expired before they reached adulthood, Mark had been transferred to an Agency upon turning sixteen.

Agencies specialise in renting out human company. Hosts for an event. Escorts to a dinner. Someone to warm a bed for the night. The list goes on. Little training and no education is required, just a body hardy enough to withstand potential abuse.

After a while, the nightmare begins. It's an endless cycle because the money you make goes to paying for your RoboOrgan, but your RoboOrgan is bound to fail – it's only a matter of time. The Agency provides you with the means of payment for the different organs you need to sustain life, and over time, you realise that there is no end to the debt that you owe.

 

The order to _get dressed in the best suit you have_ comes through at about nine in the morning. Mark groans, stepping out of his resting pod to the din coming from the corridor. He hears Nico's laughter, clear and distinct as he rubs at his eyes. He's rambling about some big event in one of the cities in the Capital and Mark hates things like this because he never knows what it's going to be – an orgy or just him hanging around being a pretty face? And Nico's talking about it – Nico, the agency's golden boy, fair of face with beautiful features and blonde hair and perfect skin. The one that all the clients want. Nico's talented; he speaks a whole bunch of languages and he dances and plays the piano and has lovely lips that would look perfect wrapped around someone's cock. Mark knows that what Nico earns in one night is what Mark can only hope to earn in a year. If Nico's going, this can hardly be any good.

 

Mark used to walk with eyes filled with wonder through ballrooms like this. High up on the top floors of a skyscraper in the city, surrounded by nothing but the clouds and the other skyscrapers, with the illusion that they're suspended in mid-air, away from reality. He used to like this, used to think of it as running away from the real world. These days he takes everything in, eyes sweeping through ballrooms bathed in shades of gold and crimson, marble statues from centuries ago lining the walls, more extravagant than elegant. Mark breathes, taking in the scent of food and alcohol and dozens of perfume and cologne all mixed together and groans inwardly. He cannot wait for this to end even though the party has only just begun.

Today's event is a celebration of the breakthrough in the cloning of healthy human organs by Horner Industries and well, who hasn't heard of Horner Industries? It's all over the place, their billboards advertising their products with the beautiful, perfect smiles of men and women all over them. RoboOrgan companies hate them because of their latest product – the development of healthy human organs through cloning that will soon be able to replace their mechanical counterparts. Should the cloning prove to be a massive success, the prices would plunge steadily and soon enough, the landscape of the organ market would change completely. But at the same time, CEO and chief researcher of Horner Industries is untouchable, for Christian Horner is married to Sebastion Vettel -- the young and handsome heir apparent to the powerful Vettel empire.

Mark has heard stories. It's the easiest way to spend your time when you're living like Mark, immersing yourself in the lives of others as if they really matter. When you've got nothing of your own, caring about what other people have seems like the next best option. Mark had followed the news of the Horner-Vettel engagement as if he hadn't cared, but secretly, he had always listened whenever Nico gushed about it with the other boys. Just as he has always listened to whatever Nico gossips about. As much as he wouldn't admit it to everyone else, Mark knows that Nico is probably the closest thing he has to a friend here in these quarters.

Mark had been there when Nico first joined the Agency, and Mark had wondered how someone like Nico had ended up stuck in the gutter with him. But Nico had always smiled, refusing to reveal anything about his past. As the years and boys had come and gone at the Agency, Mark had stayed, and so had Nico and his secrets. Mark hates it when Nico smiles at him, eyes unreadable when they meet in the corridors of the agency before heading for their resting pods. It feels weird like this, watching himself age in the mirror while Nico looks every bit the immortal youth from legends from days of yore. Mark's careful not to get close. It always hurts to get too close because you never know when someone will leave, but despite everything, Nico's still here, like Mark. A ridiculous sort of constant, in a way. So they go from acquaintances who greet one another in the corridors to people who sit together during mealtimes in the Agency from time to time to perhaps, something more. Sometimes, Nico would leave the sleek sheets of news that his clients slip to him in secret for Mark to pore over, reading about the latest gossip about high society.

It had been fashionable to discuss the affair of a politician with a Countess months ago, but gossip has now shifted its focus to back the Horner-Vettel match. Vettel had only been nineteen when he had been engaged to Horner, twenty when they had gotten married. He's fourteen years Horner's junior, but the photos on the newsheets had shown that age had hardly mattered. The looks that they had shared had made it seem like love could conquer everything, for gender – like love – was often more irrelevant now in comparison to money when it came to marriages. There were the words written in fine print about how it was more of a political alliance than a match of love, with the Vettel family providing money for the research undertaken by Christian Horner's company in exchange for the elevation of their status by the prestigious Horner name, still retaining its prestige, being considered old money even at the brink of bankruptcy. The Vettel family, on the other hand, is new money, but well established in areas such as politics and other areas in the public sector. F&B, science and research, technology... Mark doesn't need the newsheets to tell him this when he's heard it time and time again, clients groaning about work when they drink at huge parties, clients who can't seem to keep their mouth shut with complaints about their lives even as Mark's gripping their hips, fucking them.

But well, whatever goes on with the Horners and the Vettels of the world is none of Mark's business. He's just here to keep someone company for the night, and he's aware of that as he adjusts his mask. It's a tiny thing that barely covers his face, just a bit of one eye and his nose; all the escorts are wearing the same thing so guests know just who to approach for some fun. It's a masquerade, the other guests are dressed in elaborate masks with feathers and glitter and crystals and jewels and they jostle against one another as the music plays. Mark has been milling about, making no particular attempt to attract any attention. It isn't as if he's going to be paid more for bedding more clients tonight, so what's the point? He leans back against a marble pillar, sipping at a glass of sparkling water as he watches the crowd. No alcohol while on the job, Mark had learnt the hard way, so now he drinks only sparkling water or soda. From the corner of his eye he sees Nico being approached by someone and from the look on Nico's face, Mark's pretty sure who the person is – Jenson Button, the man responsible for all those hovercars shaped like a button that are all the rage now. Button's always booking Nico, and these days, it seems like he's the only client Nico has to service.

The glass of sparkling water is gone soon enough. Mark sighs, moving into the crowd, finally making an effort to mingle with the guests. He hasn't been properly approached yet, but to be fair, a woman had come up to him. It had ultimately led to nothing when her partner came and dragged her away despite her protests. If he could have his way he'd spend the night alone, but he knows he'd get hell from the Agency if he did, so he makes his way to the dance floor.

It had been smooth jazz and bossa nova earlier on as the sun had been setting and couples had taken centre stage, hands around one another as they swayed to the music. Now that it's completely dark outside, they're surrounded by darkness and stars and strobe lights and streaks of neon green, blue and pink and dance music plays, bass thumping loud. Moving about had been easier a while ago, but now Mark's having difficulty moving in the throng of people. He's used to people pressing against him, used to people randomly putting their hands round his waist and pulling him close to grind together just for a while as he stands there, barely moving to the music. The movement around him is more than enough, and he knows that any moment now, someone will pull him aside, maybe ask if he wants to fuck – then Mark will ask what is it that they want. If they want him for the night then he's out of here, finally. If not, it'll be a quick job followed by freshening up and a return to the floor.

But there's someone who seems to have been watching Mark for a while now. He's aware of the attention, as always, but this time it's different. Like the person's afraid to approach him. Mark turns, having long perfected the art of assessing someone while pretending to look at something else, and well, Mark supposes that he doesn't mind what he's seeing. Looks can be deceiving, but it's getting late and at this point in time, Mark's bored out of his wits. Fucking someone's probably better than having to deal with mindless grinding against drunks trying to dance.

Mark moves slowly, hips gently swaying to the beat. He feels the man's stare growing in intensity as he moves closer and he tries not to smile. As Mark spends a couple of beats deciding how to show the man that he's gotten his attention, someone knocks into the stranger, pushing him right into Mark's chest.

'I'm sorry,' the man shouts over the music, but his hand is still on Mark's chest. The light is down low but the flush on his cheeks beneath his mask is unmistakable as they move together to the music, closer and closer.

 

In the dim light, Mark can barely make out the stranger's facial features, but it hardly matters since he's still got his mask on. They're in one of the rooms provided by the facility, the bed sheets soft beneath Mark, perhaps some kind of ridiculous silk-cotton hybrid. For a split second, Mark wonders how it'd be like to rest on them just for one night. The thought is soon pushed away when the stranger clutches at his shoulders, gripping hard. He's looking at Mark like he's asking for permission, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, and Mark tries not to laugh, realising what he wants. He leans in and captures the stranger's lips in a kiss, relishing the low moan the stranger lets out when he bites his lower lip.

It isn't long before their clothing is strewn all over the room and all Mark has left on him is his shirt and mask and his bow tie, hanging loosely around his neck. The stranger's straddling his hips, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other on Mark's shoulder to keep his balance. Mark slides his hand down the stranger's back, going lower to the swell of his arse.

'No,' the stranger says, and Mark complies immediately, snatching his hand away. The stranger shifts, spitting on his palm, and Mark realises what he's about to do. He looks at the stranger, trying to keep the amusement out of his expression as the stranger's hand snakes down in between the both of them. The need for condoms or any form of protection for sexually transmitted diseases had died out long ago. The accelerated rate of human organ failure had been caused by the various attempts at curing all sorts of diseases, and depending on whom you ask, they'd tell you that it's a small price to pay to eradicate the failings of the human immune system.

Mark's hands are fisted in the sheets as the stranger jerks them off, hand wrapped around both their cocks. This feels different, somehow. Just for a while, if Mark closes his eyes, he'd be able to pretend that he's doing this with someone who actually cares if he gets off on this too. But he doesn't, god, the worst thing he could do to himself would be to get emotionally invested in some fucked up fantasy while he's on the job. So he looks straight at the stranger, who's panting hard and rutting against Mark – but then, unexpectedly, he leans in and kisses Mark. Mark cradles the stranger's head, deepening the kiss, hips jerking upwards to fuck the stranger's palm and it isn't long before the stranger's coming all over Mark's stomach. Mark's about to reach for himself, but the stranger doesn't let him. To his utmost surprise, the stranger makes him part his thighs so that he's able to lie in between them, and Mark gasps when the stranger presses his lips to the tip of his cock.

'You don't have to-'

'I want to,' the stranger says, no, _insists_ and Mark swallows hard, biting back a moan when the stranger wraps his lips around his cockhead. The stranger places a hand above Mark's hipbone, holding him down, and Mark bites the inside of his cheek as the stranger takes him deeper into his mouth. He's got clients who get off from sucking cock, clients who like to suck cock before they let him fuck them; but this is completely different. The client has already been satisfied, yet he wishes to return the favour. The thought of that alone is more than enough to push Mark over the edge.

When Mark opens his eyes, he comes back to the stranger looking wryly at him with a washcloth in his hand.

'Shit I'm sorry,' Mark says, looking apologetic when he looks at the mess he has made. There's come all over the stranger's face, some on his mask, some on his lip. Mark makes a move to wipe some off the stranger's cheek, but the stranger shakes his head.

'It's fine,' he says. He presses the washcloth to Mark's stomach and cleans him, and an embarrassed sort of noise leaves Mark's throat.

On one hand, Mark wants to tell the stranger that he's capable of cleaning up on his own, but on the other hand, he doesn't know who's behind the mask. If it's someone powerful who would take offence at not being allowed to do his _gentlemanly_ duty of cleaning his whore... Mark takes a deep breath and tells himself to relax against the headboard of the bed, letting the stranger do whatever he wants. Now that it's over, he notices the finer details of the stranger's mask. Gold, encrusted with jewels, painted carefully. Definitely someone wealthy from the Capital.

Later on, when the stranger is done, he sits beside Mark, not quite looking at him. He's got a bathrobe on and his hands are fisted on his lap. He looks tense, and Mark's got half a mind to offer him a massage, but he catches himself in time because, well, perhaps the stranger would rather go for round two instead.

'Would you mind spending the night here?'

The question takes Mark by surprise and he should be saying _no_ because he's got a whole bunch of other clients to service, a whole bunch of other men and women to fuck. But there's something about this man who's sitting beside him that makes him want to trust him. It's stupid. Mark hasn't felt like this in goodness knows how long and he knows that if he's going to trust his gut he'll regret it, but he has to admit that it does sound like an attractive offer. If he stays here, he'll be able to get a proper night's rest for the first time in, well, forever. It's bullshit really, he shouldn't be trusting this man because he might stab him in the middle of the night or some shit, but he's licking his lips and then the word 'Alright' is leaving his mouth before he can even stop himself.

 

Christian Horner wakes up with a pounding headache. He vaguely remembers getting into bed last night with someone, and sure enough, there's someone lying next to him. In the soft morning light, the man's features don't seem so harsh any more, and Christian flushes when he thinks of what happened the night before, of the man dragging his nails down his back, leaving red lines all over his skin. Sebastian would complain about it when he sees it.

Oh fuck. Right. Seb.

Christian stumbles out of bed, nearly tripping over his feet as he searches for his clothes. He should've thought of folding them neatly aside or hanging them up in the tiny wardrobe, but now they're crumpled in a heap and Sebastian's going to ask questions when he sees him. Questions that he wouldn't be able to answer without lying and, of course, getting himself into trouble. God, it's ridiculous when Christian thinks about it, it isn't as if Seb really loves him or anything, what with the way he goes about with his indiscretions. They share a bedroom but they don't share a bed, and Seb would kill Christian if he laid a finger on his blanket.

It takes a while for Christian to get his clothes in order (the hair dryer in the bathroom helps get rid of enough of the creases in his clothing to suffice) and the tiny clock by the bed tells Christian that it's almost eight in the morning. He should be leaving now, but there's something about this stranger that he’s just spent the night with that gets to him. When he had woken up, he thought that it was someone who moved in his social circle and that he was fucked, but then he remembered the mask. It had been someone from one of those Agencies, the ones that he engages all the time to entertain his guests. He had never thought that he would, quite literally, require their services like this before, but now he's glad that he had been with an Escort and not someone else.

It's not like Christian to hesitate when it comes to such things. Or rather, Christian before marriage would have hesitated, but married Christian would have walked resolutely out of the door without looking back. He's got obligations, he's got Sebastian, and he hasn't got enough money for this because whatever he spends doesn't belong to him. It comes from the Vettel family, provided graciously to him because he is the son-in-law and Christian laughs when he thinks about it, the sound soft and bitter.

The Escort seems to stir and Christian stills by his place near the door. He really should be leaving. This is no time to be having second thoughts about a good lay the night before.

(But Christian's having second thoughts alright, third thoughts even. He fishes for a pen in his pocket, even though he knows he'll regret it later.)

 

Mark awakens to the smell of food. Food as in proper food that's served at the expensive parties he shows up as an Escort to instead of the processed shit he's used to at the Agency. There's a small card beside the plate of spaghetti bolognese that's sitting on the tiny bedside table. As much as Mark is tempted to dig in immediately, he picks up the card first. The material is thick and heavy, and he finds a small message written in cursive script on the back when he turns it around. He's barely able to make out the words, but it's something along the lines of polite shit you throw at one another like _hope you've slept well_. There's a slit in the card just underneath the message, money tucked inside.

Fuck.

 _Just like the common whore_ , Mark thinks. _What's new_.

But fuck, it's money. Tangible money that he can touch and feel with his fingers, that he can actually use and not the electronic shit that has him waiting in fear that it would be rejected at every turn and it's all his. Something that's _for_ him, that _belongs_ to him, for once.

Mark knows that he should throw the card away because there's no point in getting attached to a client just for one night, but then he looks at the spaghetti, shoves a big mouthful into his mouth and, god, it tastes divine.

He keeps the card.

 

It takes only a week before the mysterious masked stranger is pushed to the back of Mark's mind. At dinner, he meets Nico and he's positive that Nico is _glowing_. He wants to ask Nico how it had gone with Button, but when Nico slips him another newsheet, he keeps his mouth shut. Information about anything Out There is harder to come by now, now that the Agency has started screening the clients' gifts.

'You look different,' Nico says as he gets up, finishing the last of his milk. Then he empties his tiny cup of pills into his mouth, a potent mixture of painkillers that makes Mark frown. How long had it been since Nico had one of his organs replaced that he's starting to hurt all over now? Mark pushes the thought away soon enough though because Nico's looking at him with that look in his eyes – the one that Mark hates, the one that says that he's looking through Mark.

There's nothing Mark wants more than to get rid of that expression. He wants to say something to hurt Nico, to wipe away that façade, but he knows that it would be a shitty thing to do after what Nico has given him. So instead he shrugs, not meeting Nico's gaze.

'Fewer clients,' Mark grunts.

Nico lingers for a while, like he's unsatisfied with Mark's answer. But his expression tells Mark that he knows exactly what is going on even without being told. Mark stabs at the lump of processed meat on his plate, viciously poking holes into it with his fork. How the fuck can Nico know anything when Mark isn't even sure of what's so different about himself?

 

The last person Mark expects to be waiting for him in the Agency's most luxurious suite is Christian Horner.

Horner looks different in person. Mark notices the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, signs of age that he hasn't tried to hide even though it wouldn't be difficult for someone of his position.

'Mark,' Horner says, getting up from his position on the bed. He's clad in a business suit: black jacket, navy blue tie, crisp white shirt and black trousers and leather shoes. He looks like he should be in his office sipping expensive coffee in the Capital, not here visiting a whore, no, _Escort_ in an Agency. 'Can I call you that?'

'You can call me whatever you want,' Mark says. It comes out sounding wrong. He hadn't meant for it to be cutting because fuck, he says this to every client before they begin. 'Sorry, I didn't-'

'It's fine,' Horner says, and Mark does a double take.

_That voice._

_Oh._

_Fuck._

'You,' Mark begins, voice unsteady. It all starts coming back to him, things like Horner's floppy dark hair and the way he pushes it up as if perpetually afraid of it falling into his eyes. If he was really that afraid, he should have cut it off instead of pushing it to one side. He swallows hard, eyes flickering to Horner's nose. Avoiding makes things much better. 'Shit, that was unprofessional. Sorry. Mr. Horner. Sir. What would you like me to do for you?'

'Call me Christian,' Horner says uneasily. He sounds guilty, like he shouldn't be here, and fuck if Mark isn't used to things like this.

Mark usually doesn't get involved. It's none of his business if his client's actually married with three kids or some shit, he's only here to provide pleasure. But this is different, Mark knows what he's getting into. He's read all about the rumours – Horner isn't exactly keen on the Vettel kid and the Vettel kid isn't even sleeping with him... Fuck, it's just one big mess, like Mark has suddenly got sucked into a dream (or nightmare) and he's no longer sure if he's still awake.

'Right,' Mark says, nodding. He's suddenly conscious about what he's wearing, the white button up shirt and tailored trousers he'd been wearing on the night of the party at Horner Industries. Had Horner been consciously looking for the Escort he'd fucked that night? Mark doesn't want to think about it because if he does, he'll be tripping over his own feet down the road of no return.

'I would like to talk,' Horner says. He's patting the unoccupied side of the bed in invitation and Mark isn't sure if he's doing it consciously or out of reflex. 'Just talking, nothing more,' he adds hastily.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' Horner answers. His voice is steady now and, well, the timer will ring when it's time for him to go so Mark doesn't question his decision. He settles down beside Horner and waits for him to choose their topic of conversation.

 

The night inevitably ends with sex.

Or maybe it didn't have to end that way. Maybe it's just Mark and his stupid cynicism and how he's not able to believe that anyone can come to him for something other than sex even though Christian had seemed like he had only wanted to talk. Though he knows he isn't attractive like Nico, he also knows what he's meant for. His clients come to him because they want him to fuck them or to suck them off or eat them out or touch himself for them. It's always sex, nothing else but sex, and he isn't really an Escort so much as a common whore, really. It's much easier when it's sex because that's more physical, there's nothing emotional about it – it's work, something he has to get through. Nothing more.

Mark kneels in between Horner's legs, taking as much as he can of Horner's cock in his mouth. He's got one hand on Horner's inner thigh, thumb absent-mindedly rubbing circles into his sensitive skin and Horner moans, hips rocking forward as he tries to fuck Mark's mouth and Mark lets him. It had taken a while but he had trained himself so that his gag reflex is close to non-existent now and Horner takes full advantage of it.

When Horner comes, he pulls out and it ends up all over Mark's cheeks and lips and neck. Afterwards, Horner looks down at him, cheeks flushed like he's embarrassed but taken with how utterly debauched and filthy Mark looks. He swallows hard when Mark swirls a finger in the come on his face and brings it to his lips, making a show out of licking his finger, tasting slowly.

Mark doesn't even know what the fuck this is, the strange feeling stirring in the pit of his stomach when Horner hauls him up to his feet with one hand fisted in his shirt and kisses him.

(And at the back of his mind he thinks of the timer, wonders why it isn't going off – but all rational thought is pushed out of his head when Horner reaches for the clasp of his trousers and starts to undo it)

 

The addition of Christian Horner to Mark's long list of clients changes little. He still has to service other clients, like today, when he's on his knees in between a client's thighs, sliding one finger into her as she moans. One finger isn't enough though, and soon Mark has four fingers inside her, moving rhythmically. She looks up at him with a wide smile and Mark knows what's coming, quite literally.

Her partner has his hands on Mark's arse, smacking lightly, and Mark moans when he reaches lower to stroke his cock.

'I'm going to fuck you,' her partner announces, and the client giggles. Mark fights the urge to roll his eyes and then the hand on his cock is gone, slapping at his inner thigh for him to part his legs. Moments later, there's the familiar push of a cold, lubricated finger past his entrance.

'Fuck me,' Mark says, voice hoarse. He makes sure to sound like he's begging for it, pushing his arse up so that when the man pushes two fingers into him, it goes deeper.

'I will,' the man says, sounding pleased. He builds up a slow rhythm with his fingers, going in and out of Mark, and he smiles widely when he notices how Mark has stilled against the client. He stops, relishing the feeling of Mark clenching around his fingers. 'As soon as you fuck her.'

The client looks up at Mark, licking her lips, and Mark groans. He manages to pass it off as a groan of pleasure as the man pushes a third finger into him.

 

Horner comes again and again, of course, in both ways. Somewhere along the way, something shifts, and Mark finds that he's unable to think of him as just _Horner_ and nothing more. He's no longer Horner the CEO of Horner Industries, Horner the man Mark reads about in the newsheets, Horner the man married to Sebastian Vettel, Horner the client who always appears in his knitted jumpers and long sleeved shirts with stiff collars underneath. Mark does his best not to think about the fact that he's a third party in a relationship, telling himself it doesn't matter because it's a loveless marriage and no one's getting hurt. But to be honest, he knows he can never be certain.

In any case, it's now _Christian_ , the man who visits him from time to time and is sometimes just content to have Mark listen to him complain about his work, and maybe give him a massage afterwards. Soon it isn't just Christian coming to the Agency – Christian's paying for Mark to go out with him, he's picking him up in one of those huge hovercars that Mark only sees when he's out in the Capital for some event. They go out for dinner and Mark looks at Christian, eyes wide with wonder at the food that Christian treats him to, that words can't begin to describe. The nights don't always end with sex, but it always ends with Mark lying by Christian's side on some bed in a hotel.

Tonight is different. Christian pushes Mark against the wall the moment the door to their hotel room slams shut behind him and pulls him down into a kiss. It's a slow burn. He cradles Mark's head with one hand while the other hand slips down to rest on Mark's chest, and they spend a good while kissing and doing little else, as if they've got all the time in the world to do this. Mark wants to reach for Christian's jacket, but Christian swats his hand away while still kissing him. Tasting, savouring. Mark isn't used to this, well, he's used to Christian taking things slowly because Christian always pays to have him for the entire night – but this isn't just him being slow. There's a certain sort of tenderness to his actions that hurts. Christian's touch is divine, but it feels like someone's taking a knife and stabbing Mark in the gut over and over again.

Mark moans, head thrown back against the pillow and throat bared as Christian presses kisses all over his skin. He licks the skin above Mark's collarbone before nibbling at it and Mark sighs as Christian unbuttons his shirt fully, pushing the fabric aside. He sucks and bites at his skin, never hard enough to bruise, and moves lower down to Mark's chest to flick a tongue over an erect nipple. He laps at it, teasing with his tongue while his other hand travels further down to cup Mark's erection in his trousers.

' _Christian_.' His name is torn from Mark's lips, a choked sob as Christian slowly presses down. Christian moves to the other nipple, laving it with attention and god, it's too much for Mark. He's has always known his nipples were sensitive, he's got clients who have enjoyed having him wear nipple clamps and nothing else, with his legs spread wide apart so that they'd be able to watch his cock get harder, the tip of it leaking and glistening with pre-come. But this is completely different. Christian's not doing this to torture Mark, he's doing this to make Mark feel good and Mark feels something rise at the back of his throat at the mere thought of it. 'Christian,' Mark says again, voice strangled as Christian undoes the clasp of his trousers, slowly pulling down the zip. 'You don't have to-'

Christian silences Mark with a kiss. When he pulls away, Mark is breathless, and he doesn't think that he has ever felt anything like this before.

'I want to do this,' Christian says, smiling. There's a look in his eyes and Mark is terrified of labelling it as fondness and affection, so he tells himself that it's tenderness and nothing more. Christian is a gentle person. He'd never hurt Mark. It's much safer to think of it this way.

'I-'

'Let me.'

Mark sucks in a deep breath, struggling to remember how to exhale as he nods in assent. Christian smiles again and Mark freezes because there's something about the way Christian looks at him that gets to him. He wants to stop time to keep this moment forever, wants Christian to keep looking at him like this because it's almost as if he _cares_ and this is it, isn't it? Mark's fallen too deep and he's starting to drown and soon he'll be pulled below the water and he'll suffocate and there'll be no way up to the surface ever again. He lets out a shaky exhale and he's about to say something, no, do something to change all this because there's no way he can afford to be sucked into this – but the moment has passed and he is far too late. Christian is slapping Mark's hip lightly, having unbuttoned his trousers and pulled down the zip and Mark obeys, lifting his hips so that Christian's able to remove his trousers.

Christian looks up at Mark, studying his face as he touches him through his underwear. There's a small wet patch forming on Mark's boxers as Christian's fingers brush against him, teasing, and Mark closes his eyes because fuck, he really doesn't want to look. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that this isn't what he thinks this is.

Christian leans in, placing a kiss against the wet patch, and Mark hisses in pleasure when Christian parts his lips, mouthing at Mark's cock through the fabric. Soon enough the material is wet with both pre-come and saliva and when Christian removes Mark's boxers, throwing it aside, Mark knows that closing his eyes wouldn't help him at all. There's no way he'd be able to lie to himself like this, to pretend Christian is just another client and nothing more. Christian places his hands on Mark's inner thighs, pushing them apart so that there's enough space for him to settle down in between. He looks up at Mark, eyes thoughtful, before looking pointedly at Mark's cock. He doesn't touch, merely looks, and Mark feels his cheeks burn as he tries not to fidget under his scrutiny. It's ridiculous, Mark doesn't fidget under anyone's gaze because he's so fucking used to being judged all the time, but Christian's different, fuck, and Mark wants his approval so badly because of how he touches him, he wants him to want him more and, god, Mark's really too far gone, isn't he?

When Christian flicks his tongue over the tip of Mark's cock, lips barely touching him, Mark groans, hips jerking forward. Christian doesn't part his lips though, merely pulling away to admire the way Mark's body is writhing underneath him, aching to be touched.

'Tease,' Mark says, voice hoarse and Christian laughs.

'But you like this, don't you?' Christian asks. It's not the tone of the client, voice mocking, but instead the tone of someone who's desperately seeking approval and fuck, Christian shouldn't even be seeking Mark's approval, Christian shouldn't even be the one who wants to please Mark, it should be the other way round.

'It doesn't-'

'It feels good,' Mark says, after a long pause, and he's rewarded with Christian kissing the tip of his cock. Christian presses the tip of his tongue to the leaking slit, hands still on Mark's inner thighs, holding them down, and Mark really wants to fuck his mouth but Christian's having none of it. Instead he draws away, places kisses all over Mark's inner thighs to the inside of his knees to the back of his calves. Everywhere except for where Mark wants to be touched the most. Mark reaches to touch himself, but Christian looks up at him with disapproving eyes and so he leaves them by his side, fisted in the bed sheets. He looks down at Christian, biting on the inside of his cheek when Christian presses a kiss to the tip of his cock. He licks slowly, taking his time, and Mark doesn't think he's going to last for much longer if Christian keeps this up.

Mark's expecting Christian to take him fully in his mouth, but instead, Christian kisses him all over, flicking his tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock, tracing a vein as he goes lower. He doesn't touch Mark with his hands though, still using them to hold Mark in place and Mark lets out a noise of frustration when Christian leaves him. There's the tell-tale click of a bottle opening and Mark shifts, letting his thighs splay wider, arching against the bed and offering himself to Christian. There's a dark look in Christian's eyes as he moves closer, and Mark knows what he's about to do but not yet, _not yet_. Christian looks at him like he's studying him, taking a photo with his eyes, and Mark feels the self-consciousness rippling through, especially since he knows he's being judged for how he looks right now. The sting of shame comes soon enough because he shouldn't be this eager, he shouldn't want this, but fuck, he does. He wants to look away, but Christian cups his cheek with a gentle touch.

(Mark knows that he'll always carry this image of Christian with him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the curve of his lips. He tells himself it's tenderness there, although the whispers in his head that say _adoration and affection_. Instead, he tucks them away in his heart of hearts, a little bit of warmth to keep the chill out of his bones when things get too bleak.)

It's as if Christian's careful to admire how Mark looks like when he slides a slick finger into him, past the ring of muscle. His eyes never leave Mark's face, even as Mark is squirming and pushing himself against his fingers as Christian stretches him open and the self-consciousness that Mark had felt earlier slips away, bit by bit, lost to the pleasure that Christian's fingers bring. They fill him up, and while it's a lovely burn, it's not enough. Mark wants more, _needs_ more. Christian's aware of it, feeling Mark tug insistently at his wrist, but he takes his time, relishing in how Mark is reacting to him.

Mark can't recall when he had last had something like this – slow movements and swipes of fingers over skin and kisses all over and pure reaction and nothing more – but maybe it's because he hasn't had anything like this before. Christian's got one hand on his cock and Mark feels him press the tip of his cock to his entrance, his breath hitching when Christian pushes in. Mark feels the stretch, feels Christian filling him up and he closes his eyes, savouring how Christian feels like inside him. He clenches around him and Christian gasps and he laughs because, god it's nice to know that he's able to elicit such a response from him, that Christian's not the only one who is capable of working magic here.

Christian leans in, nose touching Mark's and he stills for a while. The silence is punctuated by their harsh breathing, and right here it's as if the world is pushed off its axis because Christian's looking at Mark like he's the centre of the universe and Mark isn't sure how to take this. He shouldn't mean this much to anyone, or at least, no one should act as if Mark means anything to them, so he pushes back against Christian, distracting him with a kiss. Christian laughs against his lips shakily, and there's amusement in his eyes and the world starts spinning again, slowly but surely.

Mark has his legs wrapped around Christian's waist and he knows there are no words to describe this moment, right here, with Christian against him. But to say that he's just _taking_ his pleasure, that isn't accurate, is it? They're sharing it, partaking in it together, and it shouldn't be like this. It should be Mark servicing Christian and not Christian pleasing him. But it feels just right, when Christian kisses Mark at the juncture of Mark's neck and shoulder, messy and open mouthed, Mark feels like _yes, this is the way things should be_ even though it shouldn't, it shouldn't, god it really shouldn't.

'Mark,' Christian says, voice shaky. His hands are braced against Mark's thighs and he's pressing into him, sinking into him and oh they're sinking gloriously into pleasure. He looks at Mark and for a split second, there seems to be hesitation in his eyes and Mark wants to pick up on it, wants to ask why he's holding back but all thought of that is pushed to the back of his mind when Christian pulls out almost completely, gripping his thighs harder before pushing back into him again. 'Mark, I-'

There should be something for Mark to say, something better than just 'I know,' but he doesn't know what those words are so they will have to suffice. Christian comes, Mark's name half-formed on his lips and it isn't long before Mark's going over the edge too, pressing his face against Christian's chest as he does.

Later on, Mark lies on the bed, body soft and pliant beneath Christian. His hair is damp with perspiration and he feels the fatigue in his limbs and Christian looks at him, lips curling and Mark is pretty sure that he's thoroughly ruined, wrecked completely by Christian and Christian knows it.

'You're a mess,' Christian informs him cheerily when he comes back with a washcloth and Mark hums, eyes closed, and he supposes that this is what contentment feels like.

 

The client's gripping Mark's thighs, pushing them apart as he rains kisses all over his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, his chest and Mark groans, arching up against the client. It's alright, this client's gentler than the one Mark had to service in the morning. It's so much easier to pretend.

'Look at me,' the client says hoarsely, and Mark obeys. 'Come for me.'

Mark reaches for his cock, jerking off as the client fucks him while still maintaining eye contact. When he comes, he cries out and later on, when the client pulls out, he does his best to look at him like he's sated and pleased, thighs splayed.

(Yet all he can think of is _Christian Christian Christian_ and how Christian would look at him, genuinely pleased that Mark was satisfied, unlike the client in front of him with a dirty look on his face, disgusted with what he's just done with Mark)

 

Outings to fancy restaurants and concerts with orchestras playing depressing music with swelling strings and roaring brass are called _dates_ in newsheets, but on these _dates_ the two parties involved look at one another with starlight in their eyes and a stupid smile on their lips and their fingers intertwined. Mark does all of the above with Christian except for the bit about holding hands, and at some point when Mark's reading gossip about the darlings of high society, he wonders if this is _it_.

It's not love. It can't be love. Fuck, Mark even doesn't know what love is.

(If it were love, one party would turn and say 'I love you,' but Christian isn't saying anything along those lines and Mark can easily think of a million and one things to say to him instead, but there's always a lump in his throat when he tries to say anything so he shuts up because feelings won't do him any good in this world he's living in)

 

It's yet another party with drinks and loud music and lights turned down low, except this one's in an old underground bunker from one of the wars from far too long ago, converted into a club. Mark's clad in leather boots and skin-tight jeans and he's got a choker around his neck and nothing else. It's a themed party for someone's graduation from university. Mark wonder what the fuck warrants a whole bunch of escorts dressed up like this when a girl trips and falls right into his arms.

'Hey,' she says, tracing a finger down Mark's chest. Reeking of alcohol, she opens her mouth to say something only for it to die in her throat as she collapses in Mark's arms.

'She's with me.'

Mark turns around and there's another girl looking at him with a frown on her face. Mark shrugs, pushing the girl in his arms to her. Back to standing like a piece of furniture for a while then, waiting for someone who either wants to fuck or just some company. He surveys the crowd from his position near the bar and is starting to think it's time for him to get on the dance floor to see if there's anything else for him to do when Nico bumps into him.

'You alright?' he asks, brow furrowed. The lighting's shit and everything, but he's still able to see there's something wrong with Nico. His lips are pale and there's perspiration on his forehead. Mark grabs Nico's waist to steady him.

'Water,' Nico gasps. There's a small container of pills in his hand and Mark helps him to the bar, asking for a glass of water from the bartender.

Mark stays with Nico for a while, watching as Nico shudders after taking his painkillers. He looks cold and some part of Mark wants to get a coat for him, anything to stop him from hurting like this. But another part of Mark thinks that fuck, it's this ridiculous vulnerability that Nico has that makes everyone fall for him and there's no way that he's going to fall into this too even though this isn't an act.

 

Mark notices when Nico starts missing meals at the Agency. At first he thinks nothing of it, but after a week he finds that there's an uneasy sort of feeling that gnaws away at him, and he doesn't even know why. He doesn't care about Nico. He's just a colleague, nothing more. He shouldn't be feeling this way.

When Nico shows up at dinner two weeks later, there's a tired look in his eyes but a rosy glow to his cheeks.

'What was it?' Mark asks, careful to keep his voice casual. He shoves a mouthful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and god, it really tastes awful after what he's tasted in restaurants in the Capital.

'Liver,' Nico says, not looking up from his plate. He's got a slab of shapeless meat on his plate and has been cutting it into smaller pieces ever since sitting down with his food. Mark wonders if his surgery had really been successful because Nico never avoids eating.

'Not hungry?'

'No,' Nico answers.

Mark knows it's a lie and for a moment, he feels guilty about having left Nico alone at the bar a couple of minutes after he had taken his painkillers, before they had taken effect. He had been in no shape to handle clients then, but Mark had just walked away. But he makes the mistake of looking up at Nico and the smile he receives makes Mark believe that just for a moment, Nico's telling the truth, and the fleeting sensation of guilt is gone as soon as it had arrived.

 

It's seven in the morning according to the holographic clock by the bedside and light is filtering through the blinds. Mark isn't one to wake up before the alarm rings but today's different, and for some reason, he finds himself staring at Christian, watching as he slumbers. He shifts on the bed, careful not to wake Christian as he props himself up with one arm so that he's able to look at Christian comfortably. There's something about him like this, curled up beside Mark, eyes closed and fists unclenched, that makes him seem so peaceful. Unguarded. It's almost as if he's able to let go for the first time, and it tugs at Mark inside because he wants to put his arm around Christian and pull him close and tell him that it's okay to want to be with him like this. But he's in no position to do that.

There's that sinking feeling in Mark's stomach because he'd been running and running, but now there's nowhere left for him to run because he has to face the inevitable: he wants what Christian can never give him, will never give him, and he's fucked. He swallows hard, willing the feeling to go away but instead, it spreads all over him. He feels the coldness in his fingers and burrows under the blankets, but it doesn't go away and there's a sharp stab of ice in his heart, and all too familiar pain. He gasps, trying not to thrash about on the bed but it's useless. It's starting again. His heart had lasted longer than before, but sure enough it's failing again, slowly but surely.

Christian wakes up with a start. He reaches for Mark and grabs hold of his arm, pulling him into his arms. 'Mark?' he asks, voice filled with worry as Mark collapses against him.

'I'm fine,' Mark answers even though they both know it's a blatant lie. He'll need painkillers, more painkillers than usual, and at the back of his mind, he wonders if the Agency is screwing around with him. Had they given him a better heart to make him live longer? A bigger debt for him to pay off? Or maybe both.

(But perhaps it doesn't really matter because either way, he's still stuck here)

 

'But I can't leave you here!'

Mark freezes, ducking behind a pillar. He recognises the voice, it's Jenson Button, long-time patron of Nico and fuck, he shouldn't even be hiding here, eavesdropping, he should leave and get his arse to his next client but he stays, rooted to the spot.

'Money isn't a problem. You know I'd pay for it no matter what-'

'You don't understand-'

'No, _you_ don't understand, I can afford it-'

'It's not a matter of money-'

'I'd pay whatever Bernie asks!'

 _Bernie_. The head of their Agency who makes a huge show of just how fond he is of Nico. Mark has seen the way he runs his hand through Nico's blonde locks, how Bernie kisses Nico's forehead and tells him that he's a good, good boy, so good for the Agency.

'It's useless, Jense, he'll never let me go, please-'

'I'll pay out your debt, god, you know I can pay for it-'

'But I don't-'

'Nico, I can do this. I would, if you'd let me. Please.'

'What will I do when I get out?'

There's silence and Mark looks up at the ceiling, back of his head pressed to the pillar. So it's true, Button would do _anything_ for Nico. Including getting him out of this fucking hellhole.

'You can do whatever you want once you get out. You don't owe me anything. Fuck, I'd leave and make sure you'd never have to see my face ever again if that's what you want. _Please_ ,' Button's voice is strained, desperation evident.

Mark swallows hard. There's that sinking feeling again because he knows this will never end. Bernie will never let Nico go, Nico's far too precious. But on the other hand, Button's able to pay. Everyone knows just how wealthy he is and Mark's certain that Bernie will squeeze every single bit of cash out of him just for his golden boy. But what could Nico do once he left the Agency? He would never fit in with high society even if he clung to Button's arm because everyone knows just where he had come from, and his whole life has been devoted to doing work like this – sleeping with others, entertaining others. What else can Nico do apart from being a sex slave for Button?

'Jens-'

'Think about it, Nico. Please. If not for me, then for yourself.'

(But in Mark's heart of hearts, he knows that it isn't as if Mark really gives a shit about what happens to Nico. Or maybe he does, but he doesn't care _that_ much. Because the only thing that's really going through his mind is _Christian Christian Christian_ and he bites hard on his lower lip because he knows that he'll never get an offer like this one. Nico is well contained well put together artfully arranged all soft curves and gentleness and maybe that's why Button wants him so fucking much while Mark's hard edges and sharp lines falling apart falling to pieces falling falling _falling_ right down into the abyss into the darkness and when you look at him in the light you'd be able to see the cracks where he had tried to put himself together with shaky fingers but failed. That's the difference between the two of them, that's why Nico has what he has and Mark doesn't.

That and well, really, he could never be that lucky.)

 

In the beginning, there had been an agreement. Sebastian and Christian would do whatever they want, as long as they didn't embarrass one another. Christian had kept to his word, having chosen to immerse himself in his work. Whereas Sebastian had had his flings and hadn't exactly been too careful about his indiscretions. Yet throughout, Christian had always been there. There even when Sebastian had come home drunk with the lipstick of another woman on his collar, there even when Sebastian had come home smelling of someone else's cologne, there even when Sebastian hadn't returned at all. But after meeting Mark, Christian's almost always gone. Evenings not spent with Mark are spent in his study, researching tirelessly. Christian has spent so much time away that he's alarmed when the door to their shared bedroom doesn't open as it used to.

'So you _do_ remember that you're married after all,' Sebastian sniffs and Christian stares at him, mouth dry. Sebastian sounds different now, haughtier, more like the heirs and heiresses of high society that he has been partying with.

'I still wear our ring,' Christian says stiffly and Sebastian laughs. It still sounds childish and for a moment, Christian feels relieved and he doesn't know why. He twists at the silver band on his ring finger, glad that he hadn't taken it off in his study, although the tan lines beneath it have slowly started to fade.

'It doesn't mean anything,' Sebastian shoots back.

Christian bites back a bark of laughter. _I could say the same to you_ are the words Christian wants to say but he holds them back. There was no point in engaging in an argument with Sebastian because there's no way he can win. Sebastian's not one to back away from a fight and it's not beneath him to bring up just how much Christian needs his money if he has to, certainly not afraid to cut Christian down with his words. Sometimes Christian feels sorry for Sebastian, locked in this loveless marriage to a man so much older than him when he should be out there, in university or something. But today isn't one of those days. Christian is tired and he doesn't want to fight this battle. Not now.

Sebastian throws open the door to their room and stomps towards his side of the room, throwing his things down on the bed. He sits down, beating his fists against the fluffy comforter and Christian swallows noisily, recognises his behaviour for what it is – the stirrings of jealousy.

'You don't realise what you have until it's gone,' Christian murmurs, pulling his blanket aside.

There's silence, then some rustling along with Sebastian's footsteps across the carpet. The slam of the door follows, the only reply to Christian's words.

 

Despite everything, Christian's unable to pay to have Mark as his. He has to live with the fact that he has to share Mark with other clients, other people, and god, Mark's just like everything else in his life. Christian's got a husband who isn't really his since he has to share him with all his other lovers, he's got his research and company which aren't really his anymore since more than half of it is owned by his in-laws. Sure, Christian's got money to pay for Mark to be with him when he wants to be together, but he's never able to give Mark more because at the end of the day, Sebastian's the one controlling the finances.

 

Mark's rocking into a client's mouth as she sucks his cock very enthusiastically and really, Mark shouldn't be thinking about anything else apart from how he's going to come all over her face and how he's going to have to eat her out in a few minutes, but he can't help but think of his date, no, _appointment_ with Christian in the evening. Or is it really a date? All he can think of is Christian on his knees, sucking Mark off, and kissing him later on so that he's able to taste himself and it makes this more tolerable.

But when does sex as a job end and sex as part of intimacy begin? Then again, Christian is Christian, and he cares? Or at least, Mark _thinks_ he does, and that should be all that matters, right? Christian's touch is light on Mark's bruises and scars, as if he's trying to take the pain away, but in the end it's still love by the hour. You can sell any show you want as long as you're paid.

 

There had been chocolate pudding for dessert, with a dome of blown sugar covering it. As exquisite as it had looked, Mark had paled, refusing it and asking for a glass of water instead.

Christian looks at Mark, eyes unreadable as he watches Mark gulp down the water with a mixture of pills. 'Those are painkillers,' he says. The dessert in front of him lies abandoned after one bite.

Mark grunts, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. All is silent except for the sound of the string quartet playing from the speakers overhead, and Christian licks his lips, looking like he's about to ask something when he reaches for his spoon and plunges it into his chocolate pudding.

 

'Will you be alright?' Christian asks on their journey to the hotel room. 'We don't need to do anything tonight if you're not up-'

'I'm fine,' Mark cuts in. 'Just my heart. It's nothing new.'

Christian stares at him wordlessly, and for a moment it's as if his face is an open book. Mark sees it all flashing through his eyes, thoughts about his research thoughts about his organ revolution thoughts of how to help Mark and then it's gone when Christian leans in and kisses Mark on the forehead.

'If you say so,' Christian whispers against Mark's skin, and Mark feels that lump in his throat again.

 

After all is said and done, Christian's still paying for Mark, and does it matter if he's really paying for his company and not his body? Maybe it does, but Mark makes sure that they fuck each time anyway. But to be honest, Mark doesn't think that Christian would want to be with him willingly, despite Christian's words, it's just a stupid show given how money's involved. Some part of him wants the outings, the sex, the easy banter over drinks, all of it to be because of what Christian says he feels for him (or at least, _implies_ that he feels for him) but really, he expects Christian to pay for it all each time.

( _I could never be that lucky_ , Mark repeats that to himself over and over again)

All the world's a stage, and Mark is nothing more than an actor, paid to fuck.

 

It's the third time in a week that Mark's knocking back painkillers and, fuck, it's getting worse and everything's spiralling out of control. His legs feel shaky and he stumbles, falling face first on to his resting pod. He's slowly losing grip, he's lying face first on the mattress and it feels like his body doesn't belong to him and it hurts all over. But his body doesn't really belong to him. To be honest very few things in the world actually belong to him.

(Least of all Christian)

 

Christian's relationship with Mark spurs him on. He throws everything into his research, into ironing out the kinks with the cloning programme – but success, like everything, comes with a price.

'I'm filing for a divorce,' Sebastian says one night, into the darkness.

Christian's blood runs cold. 'I'm sorry?'

'I'm thinking of it,' Sebastian continues.

There's the sound of fabric rustling, and Christian imagines Sebastian propping himself up on an arm, turning to see how he reacts. 'Why?' Christian asks. He knows the answer already, but he needs to hear it from Sebastian's lips.

'I won't share my husband with a whore,' Sebastian declares. There's silence, and Christian can see Sebastian sulking even without looking at him. The childish pout on his lips that suits him, still so young, too young to be caught up in all this. 'And I'm not giving the whore my money.'

Oh yes. Sebastian's money. Nothing had ever been Christian's to begin with, just his research and that alone. He had been paying for Mark's company with Sebastian's money, like he could ever truly forget.

'I'm your husband,' Christian says slowly, processing the words. He's not allowed to have someone on the side, while Sebastian's allowed to fuck whoever he wants. Double standards, life isn't fair, et cetera, et cetera.

'You're mine, I won't share,' Sebastian repeats. There's a pause, before he adds 'I'll cut your funding if you leave me.'

'But I have to share you.'

'You always have,' Sebastian snorts. 'What's new?'

 

Christian means to tell Mark that he has to leave him, but each time it gets stuck in his throat, the words dying in his tongue. He doesn't want to hurt Mark, but it's a stupid thought because hasn't he been hurting him, right from the beginning?

He has to end this, since he's the one who chose to start it.

 

There's something about the way Christian looks at Mark tonight that sends a chill down Mark's spine. It's like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, right here beside Mark, just lying on his stomach as he takes in the hollow of his cheeks, the slope of his shoulders, the nape of his neck, the curve of his spine, the swell of his arse as Mark strips for him, pulls off layer after layer of clothing until he's naked before him. They kiss, devastatingly slow, stumbling over each other until they lie tangled up in one another on the bed. Christian smiles against Mark's skin and Mark aches, feeling Christian's warmth on him. Christian's still smiling when he shifts, propping himself up with his arms, but it looks different, like it's worn and something has been gnawing away at the edges. Mark catches sight of Christian's teeth and he has always thought that it was cute, for the lack of a better word, he liked the imperfection but Christian had laughed nervously, saying that it was anything but.

Words will never be enough for what they have tonight. Mark will think of Christian's fingers on his skin for days, the drag of his fingertips the warmth of his breath the heaviness of his lips all over. It's exquisite and he's shaking, fuck, he's shaking. Their fingers are entwined as they fuck, or maybe fuck is too vulgar, maybe this is how it feels like to make love, in the dim light with their shadows blending together on the walls as if they're one. Christian places open mouthed kisses all over Mark's skin and Mark moans, throws his head back and bares his neck for Christian, gives himself away completely.

And well, Christian falters momentarily, looking at Mark, who looks at him like he's the best thing to have ever happened to him. Mark reaches to cup Christian's cheek as if to ask what's wrong and his throat closes up and constricts because there aren't any words for all this right now. It's just sensation just feeling and by the time he has rearranged himself around all this, it's far too late for speech. It feels so good, feels so right, but oh it hurts so fucking badly because Christian knows that all he's got left is Sebastian who is never going to think of him this way. He's going to let Mark slip through his fingers after this because he's too weak, unable to stand up to his husband, and the knowledge makes him squeeze Mark's fingers tighter because fuck, the last thing he wants is to let Mark go. Mark comes undone beneath him, his name torn from his lips, a breathless litany and Christian bites his lip, feeling something indescribable creeping under his skin.

This isn't how it should end, he thinks, but this is how it will.

 

Christian wakes up before the sun rises, face pressed against Mark's back, arm thrown around his waist. His hand curls possessively, almost by instinct, and there it is again, the chill that seeps into his bones because all this is just a lie, it isn't really his. He extracts himself carefully from the bed and dresses slowly, watching Mark's sleeping form on the bed.

This is the closest to heaven that he'll ever get, and this is the last he'll have of it. He pulls his letter out of his coat, carefully written the night ago, and places it gingerly beside Mark's pillow.

Dawn is breaking. He should go. Christian takes one last look at Mark, lingering in the doorway. _I'm sorry_ , he mouths as he shuts the door, and then he's gone.

 

Mark doesn't look at Christian's letter until much later when he's alone in his resting pod, fingers tracing his name in the familiar cursive script. He knows what this is because really, what else can it be? His fingers tremble, and it feels like there's something loose in his chest, quite literally. He reads the letter, hears Christian's voice echo and there it is, the sting of unshed tears in the corner of his eyes because he's not going to cry over this, he shouldn't cry over this. He had known it was coming all along, had felt it in his bones, but the tears fall anyway when he blinks, rolling down his cheeks. He had known right from the start, god, it isn't as if he hadn't known that Christian was married because he's Christian fucking Horner, poster boy of the goddamn organ revolution. It had been obvious that it wouldn't work out, but over time he had fallen slowly but surely, even though he had always told himself that he'd never let anyone. He crushes the letter in his fist, and wills himself not to cry any more, but the tears keep falling anyway.

 

'Hold still.'

Mark does as he's told, turning to one side because he doesn't want to look. After weeks of consuming painkillers, he's finally here for the routine replacement of his heart. So much for Christian's research and the breakthrough in cloning and all that shit. What's going back into Mark's chest to replace the old RoboOrgan is yet another RoboOrgan, the cost of which is credited to his agency yet again.

'Feeling alright, Sir?'

Mark makes a noncommittal noise.

'Please remember to take good care of your new RoboOrgan, Sir.'

It's just a RoboOrgan, nothing more. Mark doesn't have a heart, he hasn't had a heart since he was fifteen. In theory, he shouldn't be experiencing heartbreak but he does, he shouldn't be thinking about it but he does, he shouldn't feel the ache in his chest but he does. It's stupid. In the end, there's nothing he can do to change things. Life isn't fair, and god, he had spent so much time getting used to it, but ultimately, pain is inevitable. The cycle never ends.

Shit happens. Life goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> -title from [civil war](http://sincerelyjoanna.tumblr.com/post/37916144081) by sincerelyjoanna on tumblr.  
> -12000w, written for [gemjam](http://gemjam.livejournal.com) for [exoforsichuan](http://exoforsichuan.livejournal.com).  
> -[nessaasalways](http://nessaasalways.livejournal.com) ugh have i told you lately how much i love you omfg we (more of you tbh) plotted this at cbtl over tea and other customers giving us looks and without you i swear this would've never been done. thank you so much to [larascasse](http://larascasse.livejournal.com) for beta-ing this and telling me when christian wasn't christian enough and being really great and [avirjin](http://avirjin.livejournal.com) for finetuning the entire thing your editing was really fabulous gosh what would i do without all of you ;____; also much thanks to [twowittoowhoo](http://twowittoowhoo.livejournal.com) and [onyu](onyu.livejournal.com) for cheerleading and [daemon_angelus](http://daemon-angelus.livejournal.com) for advice with the graphic /sobs  
> -what happened to jenson and nico? uh jenson bought him out and nico went with him because they're in love and everything and then yeah they go on and live happily ever after driving one of jenson's hovercars into the sunset and they get a castle in switzerland or something and adopt kids and yeah nico becomes the poster boy for jenson's hovercar racing thing uh yeah! (lol ideas courtesy of [nessaasalways](http://nessaasalways.livejournal.com) and [larascasse](http://larascasse.livejournal.com))


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